


The Apocalypse

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Prelude to future relationship, Prison Riot, Trust Issues, rated "Mature" for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While incarcerated in Sing Sing, Neal is caught up in a prison riot. He never expected the events that followed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to Treon for pointing out my blind spots.

      Neal had been incarcerated for 1,367 days in federal prison when the apocalypse occurred that changed his life forever. At first, the sole harbinger of an unfolding disaster was the brief flickering of lights in the prison library where he was working. Then the ominous sounds of gunfire accompanied stampeding feet, anguished cries, fevered shouts, and ugly curses. With a frenzied intensity, the incessant panic claxon began its wailing. The only other people present right at that moment in the prison library were an older woman from a church organization who volunteered her time three days a week, and Bobby, the obese guard who stood sentry at the door. For a brief second, all three temporarily remained frozen in place.

     The guard was the first to recover. Although unnerved by the threatening resonances, Bobby, nonetheless, groped at his waist to unsnap his holster to clear his weapon. His fingers were still fumbling with the strap when the door burst open and three convicts surged into the room, knocking his rather overwhelming bulk to the floor. A tall, muscle-bound Latino brandished a handgun threateningly as he stood over the wide-eyed, prone man. A cruel smirk transformed the man’s face as he slowly sighted the weapon and seated his right index finger on the trigger.

     Neal would never know what prompted his own response, but he suddenly found himself flying through the air and landing a mid-section tackle to the armed man. They both went sprawling. Although he had initially taken the convict by surprise with his lunge, Neal was greatly outweighed and found himself being viciously pummeled and eventually pinned to the floor, just as defenseless as the guard who lay practically right next to him. He tasted blood in his mouth and the ribs on his left side suddenly felt on fire.

     “What the fuck, Caffrey?” The Latino man demanded to know, his face inches from Neal’s.

     Neal was well acquainted with Ramon Villegas, the self-appointed leader of the “ _Amenaza_ ” gang. The young conman appreciated the fact that Villegas was one scary dude, and that he represented a growing constituency of followers to his cadre. Literally translated, the nom de plume, “Amenaza” meant “menace,” but the members were more than just a menace—they were frighteningly lethal if you crossed them. Villegas, himself, had committed multiple murders and had never shown the least bit of remorse. His gang was a strong presence in Sing Sing, but thanks to Mozzie, who paid them monthly protection money, they left Neal alone.

     The beat-down may have stunned Neal temporarily, but his brain quickly righted itself as he rapidly sought to defuse the volatile situation.

     “What the fuck yourself, Ramon,” the young man retorted as he pushed the larger man off his body and sat up painfully. It would not bode well for Neal to show fear. That was a basic premise of “Survival 101,” a lesson he had learned early in his childhood and had never forgotten. People like Villegas could smell terror on you just as surely as a bloodhound could sniff out a steak.

     “I’m going to make an assumption here, and say that either a prison break or a prison riot is in progress, and the inmates have gained control? Does that about sum it up?” Neal was looking Villegas in the eye, rather than at the gun that the man had retrieved after their little wrestling match.

     “You’re a real smart boy, Caffrey. You get to go to the head of the class!” Villegas taunted.

     “Yeah, well let me get this straight in my mind,” Neal began in a low voice. “You are still here, so you are not the fortunate escapee. One might say that you’re the one left holding the bag.”

     “Nobody escaped, estupido!” a furious Ramon screamed in Neal’s face. “Don’t you get it? We’re all still stuck in this shit hole. But now we got the upper hand. We got leverage and they have to listen to us or they are gonna bleed, man, and bleed bad!”

     “Right—leverage,” Neal mimicked the angry man. “In your position, I’d want all the leverage that I could get, and that includes everybody from the warden right on down to this guard lying here on the floor. If you kill him, then you’ve just lost an asset that you can use as bargaining power.”

     Villegas’ face twisted in an almost inhuman grimace when Neal mentioned the warden. The tyrannical man who held the reins of power in this establishment was as much of a sadist as many of those who were being held under his thumb. Neal had met the man only once when he first arrived here almost four years ago after a hard-liner judge relegated him to a maximum-security prison for his first offense of bond forgery. However, Neal felt the man’s presence on a daily basis as corruption and injustice permeated the prison.

     Like every other inmate on the various cellblocks, Neal had been on the receiving end of the punishment that was indiscriminately doled out with relish whenever it pleased Warden Gene Bissett. Neal struggled to endure as he had doggedly scrawled the almost never-ending tick marks on the wall of his cell. Now, he had just three months left before he could walk out of here a free man who had done his time. Kate would be waiting and he could start a new page in his autobiography, relegating the last four years to a locked chamber in his brain that he would never again access.

     However, right now, that future seemed uncertain. Neal realized that circumstances had probably reached critical mass today as a mob mentality had ignited a take-over of the institution. On any given day, whether they were armed or not, the guards were greatly outnumbered by the prison population that swelled beyond 2,000. It looked like today was Armageddon. Neal wondered how many had been killed, and if the warden still had a pulse. Many of the inmates were in for life without parole, so they had nothing to lose in a contest against authority. Villegas fell into that category.

     “So,” Neal mused out loud, “I’m assuming that you are the one driving this train? Are the other competitive factions on board with that?”

     “Yeah,” Villegas sneered, “for now the Aryan brotherhood, the wops, the chinks, and the boys from the hood—we’re all on the same page. And I’m their messiah whose gonna lead them to the Promised Land.”

     “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish, Ramon? What do you want to happen?” Neal had to get the agitated man talking rather then bent on a homicidal spree to satisfy his need for vengeance.

     “Shit’s gotta change around here, man! This ain’t supposed to be Guantanamo. You get that, right?”

     Neal did “get” it. He wasn’t sure if waterboarding had occurred, but there were plenty of other atrocities that did take place while desperate men were supposed to be in the process of rehabilitation. It certainly was not a pretty picture, and nobody seemed to oversee the reign of tyranny.

     The warden was probably as immoral as those that he held in check. He knew an infinite number of ways to feather his nest. Every year, he was given a budget by the state of New York to run the facility. If he delivered services under budget, he received a bonus. The more money he saved the state, the greater his prize. So, in the dead of winter, the thermostats in the prison were set on 50 degrees Fahrenheit. With frigid gales blowing off the nearby Hudson River, men in thin, cotton jumpsuits shivered in their cells at night, with just an equally inadequate single blanket to retain their body heat. The air conditioning in the cellblocks was non-existent during the dog days of July and August. Prisoners on the upper tiers suffered the most as they sweated out nights when the temperature hovered near 90 degrees. The food served in the cafeteria was practically inedible most of the time, and gastroenteritis was commonplace. The worst things were the ominous rumors of beat-downs and rapes of inmates by the guards.

     The warden had a nickname among the prison population. Known as “Hitler on the Hudson,” he allowed brutal guards to torture and maim any inmate that they deemed worthy of their attention. The unlucky convicts never received medical treatment. Instead they languished naked in solitary being denied food and water for indeterminate amounts of time. Some were eventually too weak to move and lay pitifully on the floor. A trustee had heard the warden remark, “They’re all animals, so let them wallow in their own filth.” That comment circulated like wildfire through a restive, dangerous population just awaiting their chance. Apparently, today the opportunity for retribution had presented itself.

     Suddenly, the alert siren abruptly silenced, as all the lights winked out at the same time. The prisoners rushed to break into facility storage cabinets to forage for flashlights. Eventually, somebody realized that the water had also been turned off. Finally, Neal followed the flow of armed inmates to the large locked gymnasium that was never utilized by the prisoners because the warden refused to allow any free time for them to blow off steam. Using a fire ax, they were now blowing off lots of pent-up energy as they made short work of the doors and roughly herded their hostages inside. There seemed to be about a hundred people, Neal estimated, being ruthlessly shoved into the dark room. Quite a few of the more malicious guards seemed to be missing, and Neal did not want to think about what had happened to them.

     Villegas did, indeed, seem to be in charge, as he held his audience’s attention. The different ethnic factions had congregated in loose formations around the periphery of the room. The guards were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the center, with the few ancillary personnel like the librarian, the nurse from the infirmary and several clerical assistants standing in terror on the sidelines. Neal wondered how long Villegas could retain the leadership role before someone challenged him. Then it would be dog-eat-dog chaos, and that made the young man shiver. He needed to get a dialogue going if there was going to be any chance of defusing this situation and of everyone getting out alive.

     “Where’s the warden,” he asked Villegas.

     “The scumbag coward locked himself in his panic room along with his secretary,” the man answered with a sneer and a bone-chilling laugh. “He’s probably too scared to get it up with her, which is a damn shame, since he ain’t gonna be doing anymore fuckin’ ever again when we’re through with him. When the time comes, he’s dead meat.”

     Just then, a phone in the hall started ringing incessantly. It seemed to freeze everyone in mid-motion.

     “You’d better answer that,” Neal advised. “If you don’t, they just may get trigger-happy and decide to storm the place regardless of the consequences. You have to tell them that you have demands and prove to them that you have not killed all the guards. You need to make them understand that you have a lot of somebodies that they want, and that you are willing to negotiate for what you want in return. This is a process, Ramon, that I can help you maneuver through to get the items on your wish list.”

     The Hispanic man stared long and hard at the younger man. “You do have a way with words, Caffrey, a real silver tongue. You angling for the job of negotiator? Is that what you want, man? You want to steal my thunder? **_I’m_** the one in charge, dude, and don’t you forget that for one minute, ‘cause I got nothin’ to lose!”

     Neal refused to show fear, even though he was quaking on the inside. “I just want to get out of here alive and in one piece. If I have to broker a deal to do that, then so be it. Now, answer the damn phone, Mr. Man-In-Charge!”


	2. The Siege

     Peter Burke’s attention was riveted on the television in the conference room at the New York White Collar office. It seemed as if every news station had a presence on scene at Sing Sing, with their choppers in the air circling the prison like ominous hungry vultures. It appeared to be the beginning stages of a dangerous standoff between law enforcement and a small army of determined and desperate prisoners. The convicts had lots of hostages within their control, including the warden, and they were armed to the teeth.

     Peter’s mind was in turmoil. Neal Caffrey, Peter’s former fledgling nemesis, was at that prison because Peter had put him there almost four years ago. Well, Peter hadn’t actually been the one to make that ultimate determination. A crusty, old law-and-order judge had decided to make an example of the kid, and had thrown him into a super max facility because of Neal’s penchant for being wily and elusive. In his heart, Peter did not feel that the young punk deserved four years being surrounded by murderers and gang bangers who wouldn’t have a second thought about cutting his throat. When Neal had first been incarcerated there, Peter had a discussion with the warden. He asked to be apprised of any problems that arose. The officious man had brushed him off nastily, saying his facility could handle any problems with any prisoner. In other words, mind your own business, Mister FBI Man. So, Peter could only hope over the years that the young con artist was surviving intact, and not assimilating evil traits from those around him.

     Peter’s eyes never left the television screen, but a single-minded determination ultimately settled in his gut. Authorities on the scene had not requested the FBI’s assistance. There was already a huge SWAT presence as well as a contingent of the National Guard. However, Peter decided to make the thirty minute drive upstate to Ossining in an unofficial capacity. He certainly would not attempt to throw his weight around. He just needed to be on site to get the lay of the land. Peter wasn’t sure why Caffrey’s welfare meant so much to him. During his tenure with the Bureau, Peter had apprehended and jailed many, many criminals, but, somehow, Neal was different. He was fresh and smart, and a damn formidable challenge who had kept Peter on his A-game for three years. In addition, the agent had to admit, the frustrating and brilliant conman was damned likable!

**********

     Neal had finally gotten Villegas to settle down. He told the Latino that they had to lay out precisely what they hoped to obtain from those outside the walls. The demands had to be concrete so that they could be negotiated, and the prisoners probably would not get everything on their wish list. That was the nature of negotiation. At first, every faction entered into the discussion, throwing out inane things like a basketball court in the yard, soda and candy bar vending machines in the cafeteria, and cigarettes in the commissary. It took all of Neal’s cajoling to get them to concentrate on the heart of the problem.

     First and foremost, didn’t they all want to be treated more humanely? Didn’t they want the warden’s reign of terror to end? Neal suggested that the primary objective should be an investigation into the warden’s management of the prison and his treatment of the prisoners. They could back up their allegations with solid examples of his depraved indifference. They could ask for an interim warden until things were sorted out and their allegations proven.

     Sometime during the disjointed discussions, the unexpected happened. It was as if a light bulb had suddenly flicked on behind Villegas’ eyes. Abruptly, in a maniacal frenzy, he started dictating a rambling manifesto that he demanded that Neal write down word for word. He prattled on and on about persecution and prejudice and society’s need to throw people away like trash. The piece de resistance was a demand that the governor of New York be on hand to receive this document. Neal tried not to roll his eyes.

     “You are going to deliver my manifesto, amigo,” Villegas told Neal frighteningly, “and then you are gonna threaten him with big time problems if he doesn’t see it our way. Comprende?”

     “Look, Ramon,” Neal admonished, “you are the one who talked to the SWAT negotiator on the phone. You told them your name and that you are the one calling the shots. You wanted to be the big man on campus, and you’ve achieved that. I can certainly help you behind the scenes. I can talk you through it. It’s definitely going to be a process and its going to take time. But, man, you have to keep your cool and not throw threats around so that you piss them off!”

     “Dude! We have the upper hand. We have hostages. Like you said earlier, we have leverage so they are gonna do like we say.” Villegas’ adrenalin was spiking.

     “And I’m done talking to them on the fuckin’ phone,” he continued. “You are gonna be my mouthpiece from now on ‘cause you manage to talk and talk and never shut up. Well, you can put those pretty words to work now, amigo. You are gonna speak for me, kind of like my personal representative, like my ambassador. And you’re gonna do it in person.” Villegas nodded his head vigorously as if he had just delivered a royal dictate and Neal had been knighted.

     “What are you talking about?” Neal asked with trepidation.

     “I’m sayin’ that we’re gonna tell them on the phone that you’re coming out with a list of our demands. Then you are goin’ out there and tell them what we want. Now don’t worry, my friend, if they shoot you, we’ll be sure to avenge your death by killing one of theirs.”

     Neal just stared at this maniac who seemed stoned on power. How was he going to talk his way out of this?

     However, Villegas wasn’t finished. “And, Caffrey, if you take it into your head to run while you’re out there in no man’s land, it ain’t gonna be good for you either.”

     Villegas then pointed to an inmate in the room. “Conklin, here, is gonna be up in the tower watching your every move. He was a sniper in Afghanistan and he will not miss. If you try to fuck us over, he will take you out and not think twice.”

     The sharpshooter in question stood a few feet away from this discussion cradling a long-barreled rifle like a cherished child. Neal had no doubts that he was more than an adequate marksman and would relish another notch on his belt.

     “Okay……” Neal finally managed. “I’ll go out and tell them to get the governor to come and talk to us in person. That’s going to take some time for them to make it happen. How about in the mean time, I get them to make a few concessions, like turning the power back on. It’s going to be getting dark soon and guys are wandering all over this place. If they are stumbling around in the dark, they just might wind up shooting one other by mistake. It will also make it easier for you to watch over a hundred guards if you can see them clearly. I’ll also lobby to get the water running again. If two thousand guys can’t flush the toilets, it’s really going to be an ugly scene.”

     “You do that, amigo. Get them to dance to our tune or else.” Villegas threatened.

     Neal then delivered the bad news. “You know, my friend, if they agree to the power and the water, we have to act in good faith and give them something, maybe starting with a few hostages. That’s how we start building trust so that we get what we want. It’s how the game is played, and we have to keep it going and not end up with a stalemate. If that happens, they could suddenly decide to attempt a breach and kill us all.”

     Villegas stared at Neal for what seemed like an eternity. “You do what needs to be done and give the least amount away. And Caffrey…..don’t even think about crossing us.”

**********

     Peter badged his way past the barricade erected by the State Troopers on the prison access road. He walked on until he came to the fortified bunker that had been fashioned by SWAT approximately one hundred yards from the entrance to the penitentiary. He was directed to the man in charge, a Captain Hoff, who was the team negotiator. He was in the process of suiting up with an array of body armor that would serve him well as a gladiator in some science fiction arena. When Peter introduced himself, he couldn’t help but notice the man’s less than hospitable smirk.

     “And just why have we been honored with an FBI presence?” he asked cynically. “Are you here to make sure that we are minding our Ps and Qs on this one, Burke, and not trampling on those poor inmates’ civil rights?”

     Peter held up his hands in surrender. “Look, Captain Hoff, I’m here completely off-book. I simply have a vested interest in one of the people in that prison, and I’m concerned for his well being.”

     “Is one of the guards a relative or a friend?” the other man asked with concern.

     “Well, not exactly,” Peter waffled lamely.

     Before any more words were spoken, the door to the prison opened and the SWAT snipers went on high alert, lifting their rifles and centering their sights towards the main gate. Both Hoff and Peter grabbed a pair of field binoculars and trained them on the tall, slender figure in orange who had hesitantly emerged into the sunlight. With his arms spread out from his sides and his fingers splayed, the unidentified man slowly began a trek that took him halfway to the SWAT encampment. When he reached midway, he stopped and stood stock-still. The only things moving were the slight ripple of his scrubs from the breeze, and thick, dark locks of hair that the wind caused to skitter across his forehead.

     Hoff immediately barked off an order. “Use a telephoto lens and get his picture, then compare it to the list of inmate data. I want to know who this guy is.”

     Then the negotiator and his second in command began a threat assessment. “His clothes are loose enough that he could have a concealed weapon,” Hoff’s compatriot pronounced. “He could even be wired up with explosives under that orange top.”

     “He won’t have a weapon,” Peter heard himself say with certainty.

     When those around him looked at him with unbridled skepticism, Peter clarified his statement.

     “His name is Neal Caffrey, and he’s not violent. I ought to know since I chased him for three years before I arrested him.”

     Hoff’s associate had located Neal’s data and passed it on to his captain.

     “Well, it says here that he has been an inmate for almost four years, so that could change a man, Burke. It also says that he was sent up for bond forgery. What’s a friggin’ ‘paper hanger’ with only three months left on a four year sentence doing working for a murderer? What’s his agenda? What’s caused him to take a headfirst dive into the deep end of the pool unless these past four years have short-circuited his brain? We have to assume that he’s just as violent as the psychopath that he’s representing.”

     Peter conceded that Hoff had every right to question the logic of the situation. It didn’t seem to make any sense.

     Peter raised the binoculars once more. “It looks like somebody worked him over, so maybe he’s doing this under duress. Look, Captain, let me be the one to talk to him. We have a history, a connection, and maybe I can get you some intel that just may help us to defuse this powder keg.”

     “You call sending him up the river a connection? If I was him, you’d be the first person on my hit list!” The SWAT negotiator clearly thought that Peter was out of his mind.

     “Well you see, Captain Hoff, that takedown ended with a handshake. I’m telling you that Neal Caffrey is no threat to me and I’m willing to walk out there right now to prove it.”

 


	3. The Negotiations

     Neal continued to stand completely immobile as he awaited the authorities’ response. It was a complete challenge to his willpower not to fidget or make any gesture that could be misinterpreted by any of the army of men just waiting for an excuse to blow him away. It was unnerving to know that he now had the enemy at his back as well as in front of him. He had been in tough spots before, but this little drama topped them all.

     Neal’s heart rate sped up as he discerned movement behind police lines. Ever so slowly, black-clad, helmeted men in extensive body armor formed a phalanx with their riot shields in front of them. Like an armadillo, the mass of humanity edged closer and closer until the point of the formation stopped within a foot of him. With coordinated precision, the front men then peeled off to the side to reveal a figure concealed within the ranks.

     Neal’s blue eyes went wide. “Agent Burke,” he whispered.

     “Neal Caffrey,” Peter replied in a dry tone.

     Peter stood before Neal with only a bulletproof vest as his one concession to his own safety. Captain Hoff had been disgusted with the agent, and made that abundantly clear.

     “I’m only responsible for the safety of my men, Burke. If you want to be a martyr for your cause, have at it. Just know that whatever happens to you for being an idiot is not going to blow back on me!”

     In an effort to placate the irritated negotiator, Peter agreed to have a concealed microphone in place that allowed Hoff to monitor everything that was said. However, before saying another word, the FBI agent simply stared at the battered young man in front of him. There was a deep purple bruise on Neal’s right cheekbone, and other lacerations on his face. The way that Neal held his left upper arm practically glued against his side made Peter suspect a rib injury of some sort. Finally, Peter broke the stilted silence.

     “You’re not looking too good, Caffrey.”

     Neal just shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating manner. “Yeah, well, I suppose that can happen when you hang out with a bad crowd.”

     “And why, exactly, are you hanging out with that crowd, Neal? How is it that you are representing a homicidal maniac? What is the connection or, more importantly, where is the allure in that? Over our years together, I always thought more highly of you, kid.”

     “I’m really not in the mood to take a trip down memory lane right now, Agent Burke, even though you may be having flashes of déjà vu.” Neal had felt the sting of the agent’s words and had reacted impulsively before he could check his response.

     “You know, Buddy, I could take you down again right now and none of your ‘friends’ in there could save you,” Peter threatened.

     Neal looked Peter in the eye as he answered. “Agent Burke, right now I have a bull’s eye on my back and a sharpshooter in the tower behind me just waiting for me to deviate from the script. Who knows, his round may even go right through me and hit you. So, can we play out this little drama to a rapt audience without any missteps that could get us both killed?”

     Peter knew in his gut that Caffrey wasn’t lying to him. “Fair enough,” he continued the conversation. “Tell me what’s going on in there and how it all got started.”

     Neal took a breath and began the narrative. “Right now a couple of thousand inmates are busy wilding and trashing the establishment. A select group of about thirty are more focused, and are holding the guards prisoner with weapons that they have obtained after breaking into the prison’s arms lockers. It’s a loose confederation of ethnic factions that, at present, is being held together by Ramon Villegas. I don’t know how long that will last. A lot of those guys have hair triggers, but right now they are biding their time until they see what Villegas can get accomplished.”

     When there was no questions forthcoming from Agent Burke, Neal continued. “Villegas sees himself as a self-proclaimed Moses who is going to lead his oppressed people out from under the cruel tyranny of Warden Bissett. The warden is one evil guy, Agent Burke. He was the catalyst that sparked this revolt. Think ‘Idi Amin’ or ‘Nicolae Ceausescu,’ and our exalted ruler fits right in. What Villegas is pushing for is Bissett’s removal and someone else to take his place while Bissett is investigated and brought to task for what he’s done.”

     Now Peter had a question. “Exactly what happened to the warden, Neal? Is he even still alive?”

     “From what I’m told, he and his secretary are holed up in a panic room. I thought that they may have gotten to him when SWAT shut off the power, but, apparently, his bunker is secured by its own generator.”

     “Has anyone been killed, Neal?”

     Neal claimed that he wasn’t sure. He said that some of the guards remained unaccounted for, but he hadn’t seen any bodies. Then the conman-turned-negotiator focused on the task at hand. “Agent Burke, Villegas has drawn up what he calls a ‘manifesto.’ He’s hell-bent on me hand delivering it to the governor.”

     Peter gave Neal a cynical little smile. “Caffrey, you’re smart enough to realize that is never going to happen. Do you really think that the governor is going to leave the safety of the Executive Mansion in Albany to come out here and take the chance of getting his head blown off?”

     “I know that, Agent Burke, but Villegas doesn’t. Right now, he is hyped up on power and thinks that he holds all the aces. Let’s not burst his bubble just yet. I can gain us some time by saying that the governor is on his way, and, in the meantime, maybe I can get some hostages released. If Villegas eventually gets antsy, maybe a SWAT member can stand in as the ‘lieutenant governor.’ I’ll bet nobody is sure what that guy looks like, and maybe we could pull it off. However, let’s put that on the back burner at this juncture and get down to the business of here and now, shall we?”

     Peter eyes narrowed. “Go on,” he prodded.

     “Okay, the first item on the agenda is the power and water. I told Villegas that I would try to get them restored. We need to establish a state of give and take in these negotiations. Turn them back on and I’ll get him to release a hostage.”

     “That’s two things that you want,” Peter countered, “so we want two things in return. Release two hostages and we’ll consider it.”

     “Turn on the power first, Agent Burke, then give me fifteen minutes to talk him into letting someone walk out the front door.”

     “No, Buddy, the hostage walks out and then the lights go on.” Peter was just as adamant.

     Neal let a bit of frustration creep into his retort. “Peter……..Agent Burke,” he amended when he saw the FBI agent scowl. “You have the switch at your disposal. If an innocent doesn’t come sashaying out the door after fifteen minutes, all you have to do is turn the toggle back off. It’s a win/win situation for the guys with white hats.”

     Peter made Neal squirm for several minutes as he stared into earnest, pleading eyes. “Okay, Neal, we’ll give it a whirl. You have fifteen minutes after the lights go on to hold up your end of the bargain. Now chop, chop. The clock is ticking.”

     Neal let out his breath. The ranks closed around Peter once more and the conman began retreating to the ominous fortress behind him. Once back before Villegas, he told him of the developments. Suddenly, the overhead lights flooded on, and a cheer went up from the assembled group in the gymnasium. Thankfully, Villegas exhibited some savvy street smarts and chose the least threatening hostage, the volunteer from the library, to be the first sacrifice of his leverage. The terrorized older woman ran out of the door as it was opened, and she was quickly engulfed by a sea of Guardsmen who hastily shoved her into an armored car that sped off to safety.

     Approximately ten minutes later, water began to flow from previously dry taps, and another cheer went up. This time, the young nurse from the infirmary was released.

     Neal had informed Villegas that the governor was being apprised of the situation and the request for his presence. Procedures were being implemented to make that happen, and they would just have to be patient for the time being. Almost two hours later, Villegas was running out of any patience.

     “You go back out there and tell them that time is running out for their precious hostages. You make them realize that I mean business,” he all but spat in Neal’s face.

     So, Neal again slipped out the front door as marksmen on all sides of him took careful aim and followed his progress to the now designated meeting point. Again, Peter Burke met him as before.

     “The natives are getting restless, Agent Burke. We need to improvise and give them something to keep them from exploding.”

     “What do you suggest, Caffrey? Should we pipe in some calming, soothing music so that they can find their inner peace,” Peter snarked.

     The young conman suddenly perked up and said in an enthusiastic voice, “Why don’t we take a page out of Marie Antoinette’s book and pacify the rabble with cake!”

     Peter looked at the emissary as if he had lost his mind. “What are you saying, Neal. You’re not making any sense.”

     “Look, Agent Burke, these men haven’t had a decent meal that’s been edible in a long time. Arrange to bring in a truck full of soda and another truckload of pizzas. That might buy you a few more hostages and a bit more time. And do not even think of doctoring the food or the drinks with sedatives or barbiturates. Villegas is smart enough to use a hostage as a Guinea pig before any of the inmates take the first bite.”

     “That’s going to really cost you, Neal. Let’s say the price is roughly thirty or forty hostages.”

     “How about more like fifteen?” Neal countered.

     “How about ten hostages for the soda, and ten hostages for the pizza?” Peter was driving a hard bargain.

     “I’ll run that up the flagpole and call you if it’s a go,” Neal promised.

     As Neal turned, Peter’s words stopped him. “Take care of yourself, Neal, and be safe.”

     The conman let a puzzled expression fleetingly cross his face. “Always, Agent Burke,” he finally answered.

**********

     Villegas was not very pleased with Neal’s latest progress, but the prospect of pizza and sodas was tantalizing to the hoard of famished sentries in the gymnasium. They quickly shouted the Latino down and demanded that Neal put the wheels in motion. An hour later, a box truck pulled up to the entrance. As agreed, the Guardsmen emptied the cases of cola and placed them at the front door. The inmates cautiously opened the door with the ten hostages in front of them, guns trained on their backs. The captive guards slowly dragged in case after case of soda. Eventually, those same guards came meandering out in a steady stream after the work was finished. They were then quickly hustled into a van where their faces were matched against a manifest of prison employees. The authorities were taking no chances that an inmate might try to escape using a guard’s uniform and ID.

     Twenty minutes later, another truck pulled up with pizza boxes piled high to the ceiling. This time, the three civilian secretaries were among those released, as well as Bobby the guard, and six others. The large man actually gave Neal a thankful nod before exiting the building.

     Dusk was now settling outside of the prison. The police had set up Klieg lamps and spotlights to keep the perimeter lit up like daytime. The phone inside of the prison rang and Neal’s presence was requested. As he had done several times before, Neal trod the path to a meeting with Peter.

     “Neal,” Peter began the conversation, “we know from the hostages’ intel that all the remaining guards are being kept in the gymnasium on the first floor. We have the architectural plans for the building, so we know exactly where that is. We need you to suggest that they be moved to the cellblocks and locked in. Now that the power is on, that can be done. We need them out of harm’s way.”

     “You’re planning a breach, aren’t you Agent Burke,” Neal said sadly.

     “Surely you knew from the outset that the result was inevitable, Neal. It was never going to end well. I just want to limit collateral damage.” Peter sounded just as sad.

     “I just can’t go back from our meeting and throw out that suggestion without Villegas wondering why. I’ll need time to finesse it, maybe even make him think that it’s his own idea.”

     “Look, Neal, give him some false hope. Tell him that the governor’s arrival is imminent. We have arranged to have a government limo on standby. When you tell me that the hostages are all tucked away, we’ll drive the limo, government flags flying, onto the grounds. You then come out with Villegas’ asinine little manifesto and, while he is distracted, we will make our move. I can buy you probably another hour to get the guards to safety before my authority is overridden and the SWAT commander takes over.”

     Neal sighed, turned around, and began trudging back to the prison like a man on his way to the gallows. He told Villegas what he wanted to hear and then lay back on one of the bleacher seats and closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before an irritated Villegas came over to poke him harshly in the ribs.

     “Stay sharp, hermano. You still have a big part to play!”

     Neal looked around at the patrolling inmates. They all looked tired, and the hastily eaten pizzas had made them sluggish and less attentive than earlier.

     “We’re all tired, Ramon. We’re tired of waiting. We are tired of sitting on the hard floor for hours on end. We are tired of babysitting a bunch of mopes that have to be taken to the bathroom every time they get a little nervous. We are just plain exhausted, and we can’t rest because we’re guarding a large group that outnumbers us. That requires us to remain vigilant at all times. But that is getting harder and harder. It’s gotten really quiet in the halls out in the prison. My guess is that most of the inmates are sacked out in their cells and getting some shuteye—a luxury that we don’t have.” Neal ended his little speech with a yawn.

     It took about twenty minutes for Ramon to follow the carefully laid breadcrumbs and come to a conclusion. “I say that we give these bastards a taste of what we endure day after day,” he decreed loudly. “Let’s lock them in cells real tight like sardines. It will make it easier to kill them if we have to—like shooting fish in a barrel.”

     Neal kept his eyes closed and his face composed as he feigned sleep on the bleacher. It wasn’t long before a lookout excitedly announced that a long, black limo had driven up to the SWAT bastion. Apparently, either Peter Burke or the SWAT commander had decided to step-up the timetable. They were not waiting to hear from Neal about the status of the hostages.

     Villegas again came over and poked him in the ribs. He thrust his long, handwritten manifesto into Neal’s hands and proclaimed, “It’s show time, Caffrey. Make those politicos sit up and take notice of who Ramon Villegas is and the power that he wields!”

      


	4. The Breach

     Neal slowly made his approach, manifesto in hand, to the center of the lawn. He knew this would be the last time that he would make the trip. He had no idea if he would even wake up tomorrow, and he hoped, with all of his heart, that Kate would mourn him but eventually move on after her grief had subsided. She deserved someone so much worthier than his own sorry self.

     Peter made the same approach behind his human shields. Eventually, he was able to look Neal in the eye and see how haggard and drained he was. Peter suspected that his own face looked very similar.

     “What’s the status report, Caffrey? Are all of the remaining guards locked up out of harm’s way on the cellblocks?”

     “Yeah” was Neal’s terse answer.

     “You did good, Neal. You have managed to control a horrific situation that could have turned into a bloodbath at any time. That is impressive. Thank you.”

     Peter instinctively held out an extended hand for Neal to shake.

     Neal looked startled for a brief instant, and then slowly clasped hands with Peter. In the blink of an eye, the agent jerked Neal to the ground and fell on him with the full weight of his body. The escort team added their bulk and shields as well, and Neal yelped as pain from his injured ribs flared sharply. He remained on the bottom of the scrum, unaware that all the lights had suddenly gone out and that tactical assault teams had begun lobbing stun grenades and tear gas canisters through any available portal. Battering rams made quick work of the doors. SWAT helicopters had suddenly risen up from below an adjacent hill and landed on the roof. Teams of men with gas masks and tactical body armor hastily rappelled down ropes, their laser-aimed weapons at the ready. Gunfire seemed to go on forever, and the air was acrid with the smell of cordite, and thick with smoke.

     Peter was very much aware of the lithe but inert body beneath him. Neal had not even twitched since he was dragged down, and the agent began to worry. After what seemed an eternity, the all clear was sounded and Peter cautiously began to ease his considerable weight off the slighter conman. He very carefully turned his captive over onto his back and was relieved to see Neal open his clear blue eyes and stare back at him.

     “Thank you, Peter,” he said in a soft voice. “I probably wouldn’t have survived without your help.”

**********

     Peter Burke traveled the northerly route back to Ossining the next day. He flashed his badge at the gate of the prison where clean up had already begun. He was eventually led down to solitary by a rather overweight guard who had simply introduced himself as Bobby.

     The man eyed Peter suspiciously, and said with a serious, no nonsense expression on his face, “Neal is one of the good ones, so you treat him with respect.”

     Peter did not quite know how to respond to that, so he said nothing. When the door to the cell was opened, he found Neal sitting on a bunk in the desolate space, his knees drawn up, and his arms around them. His face, now taking on the ugly hues of green and yellow around the bruising, gave nothing away as he watched Peter step into the room, the door closing behind him with a clank.

     The FBI agent sat down on the bunk next to the young man and asked, “How’s the rib, Neal?”

     Peter had made sure to have the inmate checked over by EMTs after yesterday’s events. They confirmed a fractured rib that would most likely heal on its own with no intervention. It would be painful for a while, but it would get better with time.

     “I’m fine, Agent Burke. No worries.” The conman still avoided Peter’s eyes.

     Peter pondered just how much information to give Neal. Undoubtedly, he would eventually hear every detail. The prison grapevine was as good as any news agency, maybe even better because nothing was filtered. So, he decided that Neal deserved the right to hear every detail from a reliable source.

     “The events from yesterday are a mixed bag,” he began. “Twenty-four of the armed inmates were killed, Villegas included. The rest ran the spectrum of skinheads, Latinos and African-Americans. A few of the tactical team sustained minor injuries, but nothing life threatening. The at-large inmates throughout the rest of the prison gave up peacefully. I think that most were glad that it was over. The guards locked in the cells remained unharmed since nobody could get to them. However, six other guards were eventually found in the basement beaten to death. The warden finally came out of his hidey-hole and has been relieved of his position by the Department of Corrections until an internal investigation is conducted. In the meantime, another man has taken his place temporarily, and he seems to be a stand-up guy from what I hear.

     So, after all is said and done, and the dust has settled, you got what you wanted, Neal,” Peter finished lamely.

     Neal finally looked at Peter and cocked an eyebrow. “What I wanted, Agent Burke, is for this never to have happened. What I wanted was to finish my sentence in three months, walk out of this hell hole, and take my girlfriend to the Cote d'Azur."

“Neal,” the agent said softly. “You do realize that is not going to happen now.You’re getting another four years for yesterday’s events.”

     “Yeah, I know. I was told this morning.” The solemn inmate went back to staring at nothing.

     Peter finally resorted to addressing the young man’s profile, “Look, Buddy, I know there is just no real logic to the Department of Corrections’ assessment of collusion on your part. What you did was courageous and saved a lot of lives. However, six guards were murdered, and their killers are unknown and remain unpunished. The ‘powers that be’ want someone to pay, so you and the surviving inmates from inside that gym are going to be the sacrificial lambs. It isn’t right; it isn’t fair; it’s just the way it is and nobody can convince them otherwise.”

     When Peter got no response from the quiet man beside him, he took a breath, and began a fervent spiel that he had rehearsed over and over on the half-hour ride up from the city.

     “I have had a long talk with the Department of Justice and my supervisors at White Collar in the city. It was a hard sell, but I finally got the clearance that I needed to make you an offer. What would you say to a deal between us for the next four years? You would work for me in White Collar, helping me and my team solve crimes that definitely fall within your area of expertise. You are brilliant, Neal, and we could certainly take advantage of your talents.

     You would have to wear a tracking anklet with a two-mile radius within the city. We would give you a housing stipend and a desk in the office. You would literally be at my beck and call, and your allegiance would have to be, first and foremost, to the Bureau. If you do good work and we solve cases, you are home free. Cross me in any way, or try to run, then I will hunt you down so hard and so fast it will make your head spin. After that, I’ll slam your ass back in here for the duration.”

     Neal looked at him askance. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or scared out of my mind,” he finally managed to say.

     “Oh, come on Neal, you’re a daredevil. Take the plunge. We have a history, so you sort of know whom you are dealing with in this scenario. You just may decide that it’s exciting and fun, and I might even let you call me Peter!”

     Before the FBI agent on a mission left the jail cell, there was another handshake, and the rest, as they say, is history.


End file.
